She turned and walked away, and didn't see his legs buckle, or the way his hand shot out to grip the newel post as the truth of what she'd tossed in his face struck him like a fist in the heart.
When he was sure he was alone, he sat on the steps and buried his face in his hands as the grief he thought he'd conquered long ago flowed through him, fresh and hot and bitter.
When Roarke arrived home twenty minutes later, Summerset was composed. His hands no longer trembled, his heart no longer shuddered. His duties, as he saw them – as he needed to see them – were always to be performed smoothly and unobtrusively.
He took Roarke's coat, approving of the fine and fluid weight of the silk, and draped it over his arm. "The lieutenant is upstairs in her office. She would like to speak with you."
Roarke glanced up the stairs. He was sure Eve hadn't put it quite so politely. "How long has she been home?"
"Less than thirty minutes."
"And she's alone?"
"Yes. Quite alone."
Absently he flicked open the top two buttons of his shirt. His afternoon meetings had been long and tedious. A rare tension headache was brewing at the base of his skull.
"Log any calls that come through for me. I don't want to be disturbed."
"Dinner?"
Roarke merely shook his head as he started up the stairs. He'd managed to put his temper on hold throughout the day, but he felt it bubbling back now, black and hot. He knew it would be best, certainly more productive, if they could speak calmly.
But he kept thinking about the door she'd closed between them the night before. The ease with which she'd done so, and the finality of the act. He didn't know if he would be able to remain calm for long.
She'd left her office door open. After all, Roarke thought sourly, she'd summoned him, hadn't she? She sat scowling at her computer screen as if the information it offered annoyed her. There was a mug of coffee at her elbow, likely gone cold by now. Her hair was disordered and spiky, no doubt disturbed by her restless hands. She still wore her weapon harness.
Galahad had made himself at home on a pile of paperwork on the desk. He twitched his tail in greeting, and his bicolored eyes gleamed with unmistakable glee. Roarke could almost hear the feline thoughts.
Come on in, get started. I've been waiting for the show.
"You wanted to see me, Lieutenant?"
Her head came up, turned. He looked cool, she noted, casually elegant in his dark business suit with the collar of his shirt loosened. But the body language – the cock of his head, the thumbs hooked in his pockets, the way his weight was balanced on the balls of his feet – warned her here was an Irish brawler spoiling for a fight.
Fine, she decided. She was ready for one.
"Yeah, I wanted to see you. You want to shut the door?"
"By all means." He closed it behind him before crossing the room. And waited. He preferred for his opponent to draw first blood.
It made the striking back more satisfying.
"I need names." Her voice was clipped and brisk. She wanted them both to know she was speaking as a cop. "Names of the men you killed. Names of any- and everyone you can remember you contacted to find those men."
"You'll have them."
"And I'll need a statement from you, detailing where you were and who you were with during the times of the Brennen and Conroy homicides."
His eyes went hot, for an instant only, then frosted to brilliant blue ice. "Am I a suspect? Lieutenant?"
"No, and I want to keep it that way. Eliminating you from the top simplifies things."
"By all means let's keep things simple."
"Don't take that line with me." She knew what he was doing, she thought with rising fury. Oh, she had his number, all right, with his cold and utterly reasonable tone. Damned if he'd shake her. "The more I can go by the book on this, the better it is for everyone involved. I'd like to fit Summerset with a security bracelet. He'd never agree if I asked, so I'd like you to."
"I won't ask him to submit to the indignity of that."
"Look." She got to her feet, slowly. "A little indignity might keep him out of a cage."
"For some, dignity is a priority."
"Fuck dignity. I've got enough problems without worrying about that. What I need is facts, evidence, an edge. If you keep lying to me – "
"I never lied to you."
"You withheld vital information. It's the same thing."
"No, it's not." Oh, he had her number, he thought, with her stubborn, unbending rules. Damned if she'd shake him. "I withheld information in the hope I could keep you out of a difficult position."
"Don't do me any favors," she snapped as control teetered.
"I won't." He moved to a dome-topped cabinet, selected a bottle of whiskey, and poured three fingers into a heavy crystal glass. He considered throwing it.
She heard the ice pick fury in his tone, recognized the frigid rage. She would have preferred heat, something hot and bubbling to match her own mood.
"Great, terrific. You go ahead and be pissed off. I've got two dead guys, and I'm waiting for the third. I've got essential information, information vital to the case, that I can't use officially unless I want to come visit you in a federal facility for the next hundred years."
He sipped, and showed his teeth in a smile. "Don't do me any favors."
"You can just yank that stick out of your ass, pal, because you're in trouble here." She found she wanted to hit something – smash anything – and settled for shoving her chair aside. "You and that bony droid you're so goddamn fond of. If I'm going to keep both your butts out of the sling, you better get yourself a quick attitude adjustment."
"I've managed to keep my butt out of the sling by my own devices up until now." Roarke drained the rest of the whiskey, set the glass down with a snap of glass on wood. "You know very well Summerset killed no one."
"It doesn't matter what I know, it matters what I can prove." Temper straining, she dragged her hands through her hair, fisted them there a moment until her head began to throb. "By not giving me all the data, you put me a step behind."
"What would you have done with the data that I wasn't doing myself? And, with my contacts and equipment, doing more quickly and more efficiently?"
That, she thought, tore it. "You better remember who's the cop here, ace."
His eyes glinted once, like blue steel in moonlight. "I'm unlikely to forget."
"And whose job it is to gather evidence and information, to process that evidence and information. To investigate. You do whatever it is you do with your business, but you stay off my turf unless I tell you different."
"Unless you tell me?" She saw the quick and vicious flare of violence in his eyes, but stood her ground when he whirled on her, when he closed a fist over her shirt to haul her up to her toes. "And what if I don't do what I'm told, Lieutenant, what I'm ordered? How do you handle that? Do you walk away and lock the door again?"
"You better move your hand."
He only yanked her up another inch. "I won't tolerate locked doors. I've got my limit, and you reached it. If you don't want to share our bed, if you don't want me near you, then you say so. But I'm damned if you'll turn away and lock the door."
"You're the one who screwed up," she shot back. "You pissed me off and I didn't want to talk to you. I'm the one who has to deal with what's going on here, what's gone on before. I have to overlook the laws you've broken instead of carting you off to a cell." She lifted both hands, shoved hard, and was both surprised and furious when she didn't budge him an inch. "And I've got to make dinner conversation with a bunch of snooty strangers every time I turn around, and worry about what the hell I'm wearing when I do it."
"Do you think you're the only one who's made adjustments?" Enraged, he gave her a quick shake, then let her go so he could prowl the room. "For Christ's sake, I married a cop. Fuck me, a cop. It has to be fate's biggest joke."
"Nobody held a knife to your throat." Insulted, she fisted her hands on her hips. "You're the one who pushed for it."